


The Death of Lamarque

by ingoldamn



Series: Les Miserables Shorts [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Enjolras doesn't exist in this fic, Gen, R is sad and drunk, it might be a bit angsty, les amis are planning their revolution, poor baby, that's mostly R's fault tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:35:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingoldamn/pseuds/ingoldamn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis de l'ABC is a student group in Paris in 1832, which is... maybe not admired, exactly, but adored by Grantaire. He only wishes they had a leader - a real leader, not like Combeferre and Courfeyrac.<br/>So he spends his evenings drinking and watching them, and then goes home to his flat to figure out what this leader would be like: he would be tall and beautiful, blond-haired and blue-eyed, dressed in black trousers and a red coat, with all the passion that he himself lacks, and his name would be Enjolras.<br/>If only he existed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Lamarque

They’re loud and they’re not careful, this group of revolutionary students. They could easily be discovered by the wrong people, but it doesn’t seem to bother them at all.

Grantaire smiles sadly to himself, while a bittersweet feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. He’s been watching the group for quite some time, now – ever since they first started coming to the Café Musain, brought there by the bald, unlucky fellow (the one they called Bossuet), who had found the café by chance.

In fact, Grantaire has been studying them so closely these past months, that, despite never having uttered a word to one of them, he knows their names, what they study and many, many details of their lives; there’s Jehan, the little poet with flowers in his hair and on his waistcoat, whose eyes crinkle in the corners when he laughs; there’s Feuilly, the redheaded fanmaker with a hard-on for Poland (and isn’t that strange in a French man? Grantaire thinks) and Feuilly’s close friend, the violently happy (or happily violent – Grantaire never knows which) Bahorel; there’s the laughing hypochondriac Joly, who is the sometimes-flatmate of the mentioned Bossuet, whose real name is Lesgles. Then there is Marius Pontmercy, the romantic young man, younger than the others, who only shows up rarely and when he does, seems awkward and out-of-place (there is, of course, also Pontmercy’s human shadow, Éponine, but she rarely talks and Grantaire rarely notices her).

And, of course, there are the two leaders – the closest thing to leaders these young men have, anyway. Grantaire, personally, prefer to think of the leaders as the human personifications of the concepts of Egalité and Fraternité.

Tall, studious Combeferre with his blue waistcoats and his somber expression; who values education and illumination of the masses above all; he is egalité – equality.

And his co-leader, the loud and boisterous Courfeyrac, who is always the first to laugh at a joke and who seems to possess the ability to be everywhere at once and to make everyone feel happy and comfortable in his presence, he is fraternité – brotherhood.

Grantaire loves watching them, but he can’t help but feel that someone’s missing. He wants them to have a real, indisputable leader ; an impassioned man to take the place of Liberté – freedom.

He has fashioned them such a leader, in his brain and on the paper: an angelically beautiful, young man with golden hair, blue eyes and a passionate voice. His name would be Enjolras, Grantaire has decided, and he would look like a Parisian Apollo.

In the eye of his drunken mind, he can see this imagined man clearly: bloodred waistcoat, shirt slightly unbuttoned and blond curls blowing in the breeze from the open window, while the words that fall from his mouth grows in strength and in vigour, until it turns into an impromptu speech about the sorry state of France, to which every person in the café listens with surprising eagerness. And, Grantaire thinks, this man’s beliefs would burn bright like a flame, and they would be contagious, which, coupled with his passion and natural authority, could convince anybody, even Grantaire himself, to believe in the cause. Oh, what a sight that would be!

But, alas, this wonderful, young man is naught but the fantasy of an alcoholic painter, whose sole joy in life is drink and sole reason for living is watching a group of young men throw their lives away, with, admittedly, inspiring fervour, believing in a dream that won’t ever come true.

It is a beautiful dream, yes. The dream of a people and a country liberated and saved from a corrupt government.

It is a nice thought, Grantaire concedes, nice but impossible. People are corrupt and the world is full of greed. There will always be selfish people, holding the lives of others, of good people, in the palm of their hand and they won’t care. They never care.

Grantaire is pulled from his dark thoughts, when one of the street urchins, the funny one, the one the call Gavroche, comes rushing into the café, telling everybody, loudly, about the death of the great general Larmarque.

For a moment silence reigns in the café, before it explodes in noise, when everybody starts talking all at once – Courfeyrac loudest of them all.

They talk about how it is time to start a revolution; time to raise the red flags; time to rebuild the barricades; time to reclaim the country for the people. There is a sudden eagerness in their voices and on their faces.

Grantaire shakes his head, as bile rises in the back of his throat and a sour taste settles on his tongue. Suddenly he can’t look at the young men anymore; he can’t stay. They’re all going to die; he realises suddenly with unwavering certainty; they are all going to die and there’ll be no more secret non-secret meetings in the backroom of Café Musain; there’ll be no more laughing at Bossuet’s latest stroke of bad luck; no more bragging about beautiful conquests; nothing but silence.

The dark-haired drunk shakes his head and empties his winebottle as quickly as he can. As he walks from his corner to the bar, the excited talk of revolution and change swells around him. He grabs a fresh bottle of wine and, after promising to pay for it the next day, wanders home from the café to drown the memory of bright eyes and excited voices in alcohol and solitude.

**Author's Note:**

> first thing I've written for the les mis fandom. hope it doesn't suck too bad. based on a prompt on tumblr (which I can't seem to find, unfortunately). 
> 
> come say hi to me on tumblr @ ingoldamn. 
> 
> also the title is severely misleading (sorry).
> 
> EDIT: Here is the link to the post that inspired this: http://sarah531.tumblr.com/post/65460789556/sarah531-les-miserables-au-grantaire-made


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